Every evening I look out the window to see a blurred silhouette of the sun receding into some tall buildings. Then I look around me and I see that no one has any intention of leaving the office. Sometimes, I forget that this is my new life, and for a while, everything around me appears foreign – it is as if I had opened my eyes for the first time and realised where I was. Everything feels like a dream these days; everything seems suspended on an ethereal plane, and if I only dared wake myself…

I’ve gotten so bad at writing that I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t know how it was that I became such a lousy writer. Wasn’t I full of hope when the holidays had begun? Hoping that I could use all my spare time to finish that short story, and have it ready for submission. How confident I was that I could write. And now, I am a mute, worse than a mute, the inverse of a mute, a babbler, a babbler beyond saving, a babbler everyone wishes would just shut up. Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up already.

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